Drast
Name: Drast Surname: Thranis Age: Thirty one Race: Reachman Gender: Male Height: Five foot eleven Birthsign: The Ritual Appearance As anticipated for his disposition, Drast emerges like the expectedly squalid Forsworn; although there's a certain matter that differentiates him from his relatives. For instance, you wouldn't often reckon Reachmen skin to be ailing (grey tinted) like that found on Blood Rot victims. To put it in retrospect though, the man is traditionally slighter in height than the native Nords. Likewise, his flesh hasn't been precisely scoured of it's aged scorch marks. So one ought to see the brand on Drast's face, a likely indication he's suffered from societal expulsion. To add to this menagerie, his arms, as well as his shins are woven into a scheme depicting the faces of the Old Gods. Although he's not altogether distinct from the Nordic populace; like several brawlers, Drast wears both his head (not to mention his beard) close shaved, within a robust but slender face (akin to Vivec, the warrior-poet). The eyes that are shown look to be cloudy, diseased; yet the man is able to see quite well. It's one of the reasons why he wears a mask; for villagers he's came across find them abnormal or unsettling. His slightly tall body is likewise fairly ordinary; except for the scarred chest. It has an atypical, lithe but well muscled build. That makes him a slight sight better than the average Breton man. But of course, one would have to be fortunate enough to even see what is beneath Drast's regalia in the first place. Apparel That which Drast bears at all times is an ivory mask which depicts the Woodland Man in the Reach's mythology; roots of a growing tree, spread into the shape of a leviathan. Akin to the common Seeker's head in figure, it's a delicately practical, intricate carving that's able to withstand persistant misuse; even from the wear and tear of blade thrashes. Typically the man will be seen in an extended tunic that's split down the lower half to reveal his leggings. Above the elbows of this he holds curved antler bracers. While upon it is an open belted vest that is decorated on the edges; but obviously worn, muddy or ripped. Likewise adorned is the collar section; above and over the scarf he wears underneath. Normally, he'll put on a pair of marrow gauntlets as well; which reach out until they meet the overhanging cloth of the elbows. Quite sewn over these bone laced bracers are coverings of hare pelts. But furthermore; upon his stench dwellers, he stands into an executioner's pair of boots; stitched at the soles, patched on the feet, with cloth strips wrapped over a wolfhound's fur at the ankles. All of these items, hardened substances (chitin, bone, horn) and the cloth strips appear khaki yellow. His base fabrics (cotton, leather, hemp) are more coffee brown. While the sparse materials (fur, pelts) come out as taupe grey in colouration. Weapons The exact tools to be found in Drast's sheaths would be one Draugr's sword, which he kept since time immemorial; and a honed Orcish dagger that an Orc Legionnaire named Makor Gro-Ulfish traded for a 'book' entitled, "The Lusty Argonian Maid." Miscellaneous Like your average Nordsman, Drast always keeps on him a pouch of coin. Furthermore, he holds himself company with two tomes; "Corpse Preparation" and "The Decumus Accounts." But his only sober companion is a 'wild' northern hawk owl that supposedly 'stalks' him. This bird was entitled 'Fetcher' after it nipped a Dunmer's nose. Upon the man's neck lies a taproot amulet, visualizing the Kiss at the End. It was obtained after an intense haggle in Morthal. Similarly, his left hand's fourth finger carries a runic band, given to him by a person omitted from his memory. Last to note is Drast's cane; notable ironwood that's obviously been carved into an intricate keepsake over time. Profession Once a Shaman, now but a mere Witchblade; he spends too few of his days actually marketing off his tomes or scrolls. So many should just see him as an eccentric librarian that occasionally trades his stock. Skills In years now past, there used to be a boy that roamed the Reach. Yet, like those days, so too has Drast's memory come and gone. The symptoms of amnesia rake at the man he once was. All that remains is a shade of unconscious capability, which is murky in usual feasibility. An incantation's success often comes about from the sheer intensity of his emotions. However, at the time of his youth, he was able to wield the sorceries of Mysticism, Alteration and Destruction more willingly. At this point in time, he had learned some usage of One-Handed weapons, as well as the faculty to dodge Unarmored. While albeit obscure to the man directly, these abilities still hold sway over his natural aptitude in combat. Of course, this does not mean he's incapable of learning different skills. In fact, due to a forced hand in the matter, he has come to understand how Athletics works in practice. Not to mention Mercantile. That which inflates his stock of books; dusty keepsakes wise men toil weary eyes over. Personality Drast subsists as a uncaring and grumpy individual; but his people are widely known for similar mannerisms, so it should come as no surprise. Although, Drast does not let the Forsworn define him. Indeed, he's been seen as a modest but solemn man when required to be. This unearthly behaviour was developed over six years of residing with various peoples, whilst raking out a living in their towns. He still habitually acts senseless though, muttering about 'contingent avenues.' At times he'll even speak out in rejoice, irritation or unrest, which makes him sound like he has an impulse control disorder. This all comes together to make a typically occult characteristic. Major flaw Drast does not exactly want to socialize, unless it's beneficial to him in the long term. Often, this would inhibit him from obtaining associates. However, this is usually because he loathes the repercussions of acquiring a hold's ire, were he to speak in his own way. If one were to disregard this, they may be able to obtain valuable company. Of course, that's if they do not fall quarry to the man's paranoia as well. To which involves anything relating to cults or covens. But in all, it's his mania towards his personal research that is by far his worst impediment to deal with. For hours on end he can be swallowed into books, individual endeavours or purchasing absurd items. Background of the pages within this bolted tome have been torn out. All that remains is blood stains, ink spills and a series of scribblings. What follows is the most legible of these notes Chapter Two: Entry Thirty Two: "Since 4E 170, I've lived. Yet, 4E 187 is as eventless. Only when dusk settles is a shadow laid upon me. That which Lost Valley keeps; her starved mind. So forbidden by dawn, with crows mirage in flocks." Entry Fifty Eight: "By daybreak we hustled to the encampment. For eyes a folly, in sight was Valthume. A barrow we are here to cleanse for the matriachs; but one knows naught of the spirits that linger there still. We must be wary." Entry Sixty One: "The spectre has sealed us within the main chambers. They who excavated further did not return; we're the sole residing intruders here. From amidst the darkness comes screeches, rustling ever closer." Entry Sixty Three: "We are now into 4E 189 by my count. The springtime windward should be fresh outside. Unfortunately, I'm in frighten that the Old Gods will disallow me thus comfort again. Many have vanished." Entry Sixty Five: "Those which remain persist to convene with holdout strategies. But word passes she wishes after me in the throne room. So I'll leave for that last glimmer in my heart. Damn the Wolf's consequences!" Chapter Three: next thirty two sheets have largely been torn out. Those fragments which remain are dotted inaudibly with symbols or insignia. Although, this single 'intact' piece has been inscribed with incisions Entry Ninety Seven: ᚛ᚔ ᚂᚑᚃᚓ ᚆᚑᚒ ᚓᚃᚓᚏ ᚄᚈᚔᚂᚂ᚜ line is a series of short slashes and varied strokes, concealing a type of tree alphabet. But where it ceases, one would see an unwritten emptiness in the vacant pages; all but hollow to the Moth, until the following occurs Chapter Four: Entry One Two Four: "Who's notebook was this? What is this place! Why did I awake here? What has happened!" Entry One Two Six: "Bah, cracked out of that mulish crypt. Now to ask if a fletching Nord halfwit believed me cold?" Entry One Two Nine: "Mhm, so it looks like I've been walking in circles now, damn stones in these feet are biting in fierce.." Entry One Three Five: "Urgh, smoke was on the horizon this time. Good. I was about to walk right off suicide hill." Entry One Three Eight: "Grr, season's greetings my ass. The spittle hagspawn see me as a prodding boar." Entry One Four Two: "Pleasant brigands, assisting with the getaway. Shame they became ritualistic supper." Chapter Five: From the continuing narrative of these journals, we would find herein that Drast settled for a time in Falkreath, where he became a nuisance to the townfolk there. So eventually, resolve told him to make journey once more, thereafter to go unceased into the wilderness's path; searching away for knowledge, history or relief from scrutiny. Here his mind gradually became used to burying emotions deep, in a bid to shirk the sunken drag of solemn lunacy. The man's senses were honed keen once more, at the expense of a frigid personality; which persisted even as he had traversed the plains towards Whiterun. Therein, he had the audacity to disregard a Giant's territory, recklessly thieve her cherished keepsake, then depart without even leaving a note. Too truly the mark of a man. Which clearly had ensuing repercussions to the hold's people, for he was imprisoned not that soon afterwards. But there, in the encaged undercroft, he met an old decrepit fellow by the name of Odichus Shank-Wither; whom claimed he was Drast's teacher. As mad as he was, Drast felt a connection to this man; whether in good or for ill. So he let him talk about the days he recalled spending with him in the past, as if to see if what he speaks is truth. Of course, even when the sleepworthy mummerings of an elderly rambler were over with, he was none the wiser. In which case brought about the senile hobbler a stubborn want to prove it; so he gave Drast his store's key. In retrospect though, this would be an addled decision. But, it would exemplify Odichus's point through his work notes. Therefore when Drast's time in the prison was up, he made way to Morthal, where the old man's store would be located. Upon this estranged passage, he looked up to the skies that passed him. For surely where the winds walked, so too would there be traces of him seeping within the brush strokes. Only when he reached Morthal did he believe this stayed true to word. As within Odichus's store, Drast had found the honesty to the elder's voice. See, here his diaries told of a youth named Drast which, from the sounds of it, resounded much like he himself in fashion. Although the ever suspicious Drast had some doubt that they were the same. So while the man thought it somewhat right to give his imprisoned company some contentedness by taking up this profile, he still didn't identify with it. Not yet anyway. No, not until he was sure he had his facts straight. To do this, he continued studying the books at his disposal. All the while appearing as a disgruntled bookseller that occasionally ventured into the marsh to look for covens. For what reason exactly, only the townsfolk could wonder. But what they did know of was the man's curious habit in asking after specific items. To the extent of putting up quaint requests on the notice board.. tome ends here